"I drive on the right," Dempsey, The Cortez Connection.
"We could always stay here and drink…" Harry suggests on the steps of the large house. The Escort is parked by a pair of stone gateposts and blocked on the driver's side by a large black Bentley.
"And how are we gonna get home?" He asks, "even I know you can't hail a cab from St John's Wood."
Her hair takes years from her age, and yet adds to them all at the same time; she's a time travelling enigma. He remembers her blonde bob and sulky attitude at Winfield Hall, and the big blonde curls bouncing at him as she pushed him across the room with her anger.
After he'd threatened the guy in the kitchen and they'd got the information they wanted, he found her in a cold room that he guessed was a pantry once. There was a cold magnum of champagne in an ice bucket left unguarded. His partner snagged it and tore off the foil top, leading him outside with her eyes. The booze was doubtless destined for some chinless upstart with a large pay packet otherwise spent on coke. Harry, not 'Harriet the Lady' or Makepeace, the DS, took that bottle. This Harry booted out her husband, smoked cigarettes and smashed in the faces of criminals with a belt. If you left a bottle of bubbles unguarded, she'd take it; not her problem.
"Says you," Harry pouts, and takes a swig. She looks up the road. It's empty. He wonder what she'd look like smoking a cigar if he lit one now. His body couldn't take it; his legs stumble as his heat skips a beat.
They loiter on the gravel even though they have a ride and he is perfectly able to drive. He takes a long pull from the bottle, his gaze doesn't leave hers as he wonders how much he has to beg her to stay with him tonight. There was a challenge in her eyes, still high from her easy success at the party. It's infectious and he has a plan in mind too. It involves his bed, her and no clothes.
"I can drive," he offers as they view the obnoxious Bentley with more impatience. "We could steal these big wheels."
"Big back seat…" Harry peers through the windows and he coughs. She grins, victorious again.
They arrive at the passenger door of the Escort. He watches her ass as she slides across the vinyl. It takes her seconds to reverse the car out and swing it onto the road, as he'd suspected.
He doesn't mind her driving in the least, she's imbued with the geography of this vibrant city. They sweep past chic homes and iron gated squares, onto the West Way. He has no idea where they are.
He's about to ask when as she turns the car and they stop in a side street. The movement makes him slide a little into the centre by the handbrake. All the energy that's been crashing between them turns kinetic as she moves towards him and press her lips against his. This time there's no undercover mission or reason for either of them to pull away, so he kisses her back, holding her in place. She's not going anywhere; he's making sure of it.
Her mouth is heaven, like warm spring and the champagne lingers on her tongue, sending a surge up his spine, like the bubbles in a flute. He feels loose, as if he's drunk the whole magnum, his muscles tepid as he rests back in the seat and she follows, just enough to hold herself up and angle her body. Her hand is dangerously close to his hips and he's wearing thin pants. He groans.
The light is leaking into the windscreen, an orange sodium glow of street lamps and rain drops, the steam they're creating hiding them from view in the early hours of next day. Her eyes are round as they part for air, a mirror of her glossy mouth. When he moves in, she meets him but he's feather light, checking she's okay. Then she makes a breathy sound that makes his body shudder. They pause quietly, and he strokes her palm with his thumb; he could spend hours here.
Impatiently, she turns to capture his mouth, his tongue and succeeds. He likes to think he's in charge, but where she goes, he follows. This kiss is slow and deliberate, her breath hot and he wonders how she's real. She wields a gun, beautiful looks and a sass that floors him. She saved him, yelled at him and reshaped him into a better him.
He's home.
There's the beep of a car horn in the distance, and it speeds past. Dempsey feels hot and tight from the weight of what they've done. She moves back into the driver's seat with a knowing smile and starts the engine. They move along the road, the same direction but different. A crash of love hits him so hard, he's certain that his soul is somewhere over the Thames, never destined to leave. This woman has dug into his body and taken his heart. He wonders if she even knows.
They turn to his street. He wants to sweep her off her feet and carry her to bed. Imbued with a plan, Dempsey gets out of the car, and his heart skips and he still can't get the words together. Her eyes across the car are bright, confident and knowing.
"I guess I could use the sleep," Dempsey said uncharacteristically lamely and he thinks how she's changed him. He finds the appropriate seductive words Harry deserves and opens his mouth…
The Cortez Connection.